


The First Khaleesi

by inspirationcocoa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspirationcocoa/pseuds/inspirationcocoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys was not the first woman to share Drogo's bed. Basically, the story of Drogo's first love and how he came to be the fierce warrior he was when he met Daenrys</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Snake Bites

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long while ago and I'm migrating some of my fics here. Also any Dothraki words you want to look p can be done here: http://docs.dothraki.org/ikarhtoD.pdf

 

The thundering of hooves was like a storm born in the center of her breast. Shasa could feel it rising around her and her immediate thought was “run” even as she knew there was nowhere to go.

Khal Drogo was still young, not even twenty years had he seen, but his hair flowed down his back; the sign of a true _khal_ like his father before him. Where his _khalasar_ rode, they brought riches to Vaes Dothrak and woe to the lands they touched. As his warriors rode down the Windgrass people, he thought only of the spoils he would reap.

Shasa Windgrass was still young. Barely thirteen, she’d only had her blood once but as the Dothraki warriors rode into her village, she knew her age would not matter to the men who would take her like a rutting animal. So she

By the end of the night, Drogo’s _khalasar_ had claimed the people of the Windgrass as slaves. All they could not take or did not need they burned. Drogo himself had slit the throats of their council members within the high temple where the people of the Windgrass worshiped. He did not care; the horse eats the grass and shits it out. As the rest of his _khas_ took to the streets claiming their women and slaves, he took to the tower of the temple to the rest and lord over his claim. 

When she heard the footsteps enter the antechamber of the temple, Shasa held her breath. All day, she’d heard the screams which were only silenced by the gurgling of blood as her countrymen died. She’d wept silent tears both for the people who’d died and for her own cowardice. She’d hid like a snake hides in the tall grass, but unlike the snake, she had nothing with which to strike her enemies except a small dagger forged of Valyrian steel that her father, the temple master, had traded for. She trembled against the small cupboard in which she’d hidden and waited for reprieve.

 

Drogo paused in the antechamber and cocked his head to the side. He’d heard a slight noise, an intake of breath. He studied the room around him. It seemed empty. Whatever gods the Windgrass people had had abandoned them. The bells in his hair tinkled as he made his way around the room. He flung open the doors of the cupboard tossing aside the scrolls and raiment of the temple but he found nothing. Finally he came to the last cupboard. He threw it open and stumbled back as he felt a stab of pain in his chest, like a snakebite. He cursed and grabbed at the figure in front of him. As he reached, he was met with a slash of steel. His hand closed around the blade even though it cut with fury. Drogo held the blade in his hand as he grabbed for his attacker. He was surprised to feel the softness of the body against him. And even more astonishing was the look of determination and strength in the young girl’s golden eyes as she said a word he would come to know well. “No.” 

Shasa looked up at the Dothraki warrior and nearly gasped. He held the blade of her dagger as if it were a plaything while his other hand gripped her waist. He was large, at least two heads taller than her father and his eyes were dark and shadowed though not cruel. He seemed almost amazed at her audacity. She spoke to him in the Common Tongue but he looked at her quizzically. She pushed against his chest but it was as useless as a bloodfly trying to move a wall. He ripped the dagger from her hand and threw it to the floor but he did not let go of her. Shasa grew frightened as he took her in, one hand gripping her wrist and the other at her waist. She did the only thing she could do; she looked at him defiantly and spoke the little Dothraki she knew. “Kill me now,” she said.

The _khal_ looked at the defiant child in front of him, begging for death. She was no more than thirteen, though her body was supple and womanly. There was a spark in her eyes and she never broke contact with his, even as she struggled. He looked down at his chest, where she’d cut him. It was shallow but the cut of the Valyrian steel burned to his heart. He smiled down at her and replied in his tongue. “You are a filly I will break.” Shasa did not know the meaning of his words but his voice was sultry and menacing and she could guess its intent. “No,” she said. Drogo took in the girl’s brown skin, the color of wheat about to be harvested, and her golden eyes. He felt himself harden as she pushed against him.

“Blood of my blood.” Drogo turned to find Cohollo, one of his bloodriders, standing in the antechamber. “The _khalasar_ awaits your command,” Cohollo said.

“We will feast here tonight,” Drogo ordered. He pushed Shasa towards his lieutenant. “Take her to my tent and tie her up,” Drogo shifted his hard gaze to Cohollo. “Don’t let anyone touch her.” Drogo grabbed a piece of silk from her shift and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. He picked up the dagger and put it into the sheath at Shasa’s waist.

“You arm the girl?” Cohollo said uncertainly.

“She has nowhere to go,” Drogo smiled his deadly smile.

 

Shasa’s head was bowed as she marched past what had been her village. The death cries of her brother and fathers were replaced by the screams of women being raped by the Dothraki horde. The women and girls cried out to her as she passed. Amongst her people Shasa was given a place of honour. Daughter of a temple master and a healing woman, Shasa was borne of two great Windgrass families and today she’d failed her people. The Dothraki had killed them and she’d hidden. She was no match for the horselord who’d laid siege to her land and as Cohollo tied her to a tent pole to wait for Drogo, Shasa wept silent tears.

 

Khal Drogo entered his tent right before sunrise. He’d had his fill of food and fermented mare’s milk and now his desire had turned to other things. He took off his painted vest and his horsehair trousers. Naked, he knelt beside Shasa whose head was bowed to her chest with exhaustion. He touched her face, running his fingers over her dry lips.

Shasa gasped as she woke. Drogo knelt in front of her, his dark eyes like a shadow clouding her golden ones. Shasa took him in, naked and stiff. She had never been with a man before. In fact, she had planned to never be with one. After her mother’s death she’d been promised to the temple to be the next High Priestess and remain unspoiled, but Drogo had taken that from her and her people. He looked at her as if the silk shift she wore did not exist.

Drogo began to pull at the ties of her shift and Shasa protested. Each touch boiled her blood. “No,” she shouted. Shasa wracked her brain for the little bit of Dothraki she knew. “No slave,” she said.

Drogo paused with narrowed eyes. “I have defeated your land,” he said. “I claim you and you will do as I command.”

Shasa looked at him unwavering and spoke in the Common Tongue. “I am Shasa Windgrass, daughter of the temple master. My mother was the great healer Lynxa, of the Low Grass. I am promised to the Mother Goddess. And you are no king to me.” She finished in Dothraki. “Kill me now, khal,” she said.

Drogo grabbed the dagger from her sheath and pressed it against her throat. “You will obey,” he said. Shasa leaned into the steel and felt it prick her throat.

“I will die,” she replied in Dothraki. Drogo stared into her unrelenting gaze. Though a child, she carried herself as a woman. He threw back his head and laughed. This one he would not break and her fire only enflamed him. This one would burn until she begged.

Drogo slit her bonds and pulled her to her feet. Shasa could feel the blood circulating in her hands again. Drogo pushed the shift off her shoulders until she stood naked before him. He reached for her and Shasa swatted her hand away. “No,” she said forcefully. She licked her lips self-consciously. He walked around her, taking in her body and she raised her head regally. No matter what, she would not cry in the face of terror. She would not give him the satisfaction.

Drogo admired her courage. It excited him. He moved in from behind winding his fingers in her inky black hair, which curled lightly at her temples and the nape of her neck. He felt her resist and he pulled her head back, exposing the brown skin of her neck. He nipped at her like a stallion with a young filly. If she would not break, maybe she would bend.

“ _Jada_ ,” he said. He pulled her down next to him on the blankets and pillows. Tonight he was tired, sore. He’d already set down his whip and _arakh_ , and he wanted to lie by the fire. He settled down, pulling the girl beside him. She settled next to him turning her back. “No,” he said forcefully, pulling her to him. He had always been a quick study. Shasa was exhausted and her limbs were still weak from being tied up all night, she did not struggle much. His fingers tangled in her hair, which smelled of sweet grass and summer wind. Lying next to the warmth of her body, Drogo fell into a deep sleep.

 

He woke up with a blade pressed against his throat. Shasa loomed over him and spoke in cold Dothraki. “ _Nayat addrivat vo khal,_ ” she said. Drogo’s eyes narrowed. Quick as lightning, he’d flipped her on her back. The cold Valyrian steel cut his throat and he saw a trickle of blood fall to her chest. Drogo pinned her arms over her head and wrenched her wrist causing the blade to fall amongst the folds of the blanket. Shasa cried out at the pain, her chest heaving against his weight. He dipped his fingers into the blood on her chest and rubbed it against her lips.

 “This is the last of my blood you shall taste, Grass Girl,” Drogo whispered in deadly tones. He captured her lips in a kiss tasting the blood and fear on her. Still holding her wrists, Drogo reached down squeezing the soft flesh of her hips. He lapped at the blood, which had pooled between her breasts. Shasa bucked at his hips like a wild mare but she was no match for his strength and size and he wrapped his arm around her body pulling her against his hard chest. Shasa could feel a fire rising in her belly. Drogo could feel it too. He took her nipple in his mouth and Shasa felt the air leave her body like a hiss. Drogo smiled against her flesh as he bit her gently. And when he captured her lips, her eyes had gone from the golden sparks of defiance to the molten gold of desire. Shasa had never felt like this before. She could feel the pressure mounting as he touched her. His skin was warm and he smelled like oil and spices. She could see the candlelight dancing in his coal-black irises. The look in his eyes was hungry like the jungle cats that stalked the deer in the tall grass. His fingers danced closer to her sex. “ _Qoy qoyi_ ,” Qotho said as he entered the tent. “Khal Ogo rides from the west. The _khalasar_ is anxious to return to Vaes Dothrak.”

Drogo stood, frustrated. “I am Khal Drogo, son of Bharbo. My hair has never been cut. I do not fear Khal Ogo or any other.” Qotho stood there silently. He knew when his _khal_ raged, there was nothing to do but wait it out. He took in the dagger amongst the folds of the blankets and the blood on Drogo’s neck as he wiped it off but he remained quiet. “We leave when I am ready,” Drogo said.

“The grass whore,” Qotho asked. “Are you done with her?”

Drogo looked at Shasa who had pulled the blankets over her nakedness. She looked windblown and fiery but also innocent. She was rubbing her wrists and her golden eyes sparked with contempt. Her passion may have been ignited but her anger had also been stoked.

“Have her bathed,” Drogo ordered. “She will tend me.” He looked down at his wounded hand and felt his pulse at his throat. He left the tent without a backwards glance. “Be careful, the snake bites.”

 


	2. The Road to Vaes Dothrak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just quickly, someone asked me about the name Shasa before. It's completely made up but I thought it gives the impression of the sound of wind moving through grass so it was fitting.

Over the next few weeks, Shasa found herself caught between two worlds; the women of the  _khalasar_  reviled her and her own people openly despised the girl who had hoped one day to lead them. By day, she rode behind the _khal_  and his bloodriders, a place of honour. In the evening, she tended Drogo washing his body and scenting it with oil. Soon she came to know every inch of his broad shoulders and muscled torso. She braided his hair with nimble fingers, weaving the bells into the plait. Her own people, the women and children who’d been taken as slaves, watched her fetching Drogo’s things and tending his hearth. They called her a Dothraki bitch and spat at her feet. The days were hot and dusty. When the  _khalasar_  camped, she arranged the blankets in the  _khal’s_  tent and started the fire. When everything was set, she bathed the dirt and dust from her body, prayed to the Mother Goddess and fell asleep exhausted and bruised from the long day of riding.

Drogo would return after feasting and shed his clothing. He would lie down beside her and pull her close, tangling his fingers in her hair, and then he would fall asleep. Shasa didn’t know what to make of it. He never pressed her the way he did that first night. Only once when he’d lain beside her and found her still in her shift and small clothes had he protested. From then on she made sure to slip naked under his blankets. Sometimes she watched him as he slept. In repose, his face had a sweetness to it. His brow evened and he breathed pleasantly. He held her loosely and she laid her head on his chest feeling the slow thud of his heart.

Many times she dreamed of slitting his throat and setting her people free but more often she dreamt of him and her thighs moistened at the thought of the way he’d touched her that first night. One night she dreamt of her mother and father, together again within the walls of the temple and Shasa woke up with tears wet on her face. When she looked up, Drogo was staring at her puzzled. He wiped the salty tears from her eyes and Shasa kissed his fingers. She took his large hand in hers, threading her fingers through his. Slowly, she kissed at the salty wetness that lingered on his chest. When she looked up he was staring into her golden eyes and she could feel the heat that smoldered in his coal black ones.

Shasa kissed him fiercely, biting at his lips. Her tongue snaked out to taste his mouth. He tasted of meat and mead and honey. She swung her leg over until she was sitting astride him. Drogo came up to meet her, one hand tangling in her hair and the other exploring her flesh. Shasa reached down hesitantly and positioned him at her entrance. He entered her swiftly, breaking her maidenhood, and she gasped, gripping his shoulders. He filled her completely and she felt as if he could touch the fire in her belly.

Shasa rode him as hard as a stallion cantering over the Dothraki Sea. He gripped her hips and pulled her closer until they were pressed chest to chest. And when he spilled his seed inside of her, she fell forward breathless against his throat. “Goddess,” she whispered, spent. Drogo tasted her salty, sweet skin and whispered in her ear, “ _Anni_.” Mine.

 

“She is a slave, you are a  _khal_ ,” Qotho said as they rode the next day. “You elevate her as if she were a true Dothraki"

“She will ride beside me as long as I wish,” Drogo replied.

“That whore is no  _khaleesi_. You cannot trust her.”

Drogo narrowed his eyes at his bloodrider causing him to look away in fear. “Do not question me. Shasa rides by my side.” Drogo cantered ahead, letting the thundering hooves drown out Qotho’s words. It had been three nights since Shasa had given herself to him and every night since they’d lay together, giving themselves over to their passion and learning every part of the other’s body. He’d come to know the soft cries she made as he spilled his seed into her, as well as the deep moans that signaled her climax. Each time she kissed him, he felt breathless in a way he never felt after riding across the Sea. Every time he saw her was a sickeningly sweet shock to his senses. He liked to watch the way she moved as she tended him. Each move was deliberate and reverent as if she were praying. She washed the dust from his body as if she were tending a god.

The many weeks she’d lain beside him, he’d thirsted for her but he’d restrained himself. Sometime he’d wake to find her nuzzled against him like a foal. He’d inhale that scent that never seemed to leave her skin; summer wind and sweet grass. When she’d taken him that first night, he’d let her take the lead, knowing that her pride would not survive anything else. And in so many ways, surrendering to her passion was even more exciting. This small girl held his happiness in her breast. He lusted after her but even more he wanted to please her. It was hard for him because he knew his people did not respect his decision. They did not understand that he wanted something different. 

Shasa trotted up behind him. “What is it, my king?” she asked, seeing his furrowed brow.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go back to the  _khas_.”

 “But –,“ she protested.

 “Leave, slave!” he bellowed.

 Shasa drew her horse up suddenly. “As you wish,” she replied icily. Drogo watched her back as she galloped away.

             

 When they camped, Shasa set up the tent as usual and headed down to the spring to bathe and wash the khal’s clothes. The Windgrass women stayed far away from her though the whispers of whore and traitor carried on across the water. Fatigued, she returned to the tent to pray and rest but she found Drogo sitting near the fire. She looked at him, her golden eyes sparking with anger, and marched past him setting down the things she’d carried to the spring.

 “ _Anha fevela_ ,” Drogo said stiffly. Dutifully, Shasa went and poured him a cup of fermented mare’s milk. She handed him the cup and walked away. Drogo drained the cup in one gulp. “ _Save,_ ” he ordered. Shasa poured him another and he gulped it down just as quickly. “ _Save_ ”. Shasa refilled cup after cup and he drained each one until he was sluggish and unsteady. She was pouring him another cup when he grabbed her wrist, pulling her close. “Take off your clothes,” he said.

 “Is that an order, my king?,” Shasa said coldly.

“Yes,” he said. Shasa stood tall and took off her shift, letting it fall to the ground.

“Anything else, my king?” Shasa said, looking own on him with contempt.

Drogo stood up, towering over her. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up, wrapping her legs around him. He walked over to the blankets and laid her down, entering her with assuredness. Shasa stood her ground, displaying none of the passion she’d once felt. Drogo was incensed by her disinterest and he moved within her harder, plunging deeper as if he could melt the ice of her heart with his body. Occasionally, her body betrayed her; a sigh when he kissed a particular spot on her neck, a moan when he wrapped his lips around the soft flesh of her breasts and suckled, and when he came her hips bucked up instinctively to meet his final thrust. But when he was done, breathless and boneless, she untangled herself from his body and stood. “Will that be all?,” she asked, haughtily as she redressed. His silence taken for permission, she left the tent and his frustration behind.

 

“ _Me vos ofrak-hi._  He will never touch me again,” Shasa vowed as she paced. “ _Hash anha rissat lekh. Vosecchi._ ” Shasa hurled the water pot she was carrying to the ground. “I am Shasa Windgrass, daughter of Lynxa, the great healer and Asroth, the temple master. My people worship the Great Goddess. I am promised to her.” Shasa recited the words vehemently. They were like a mantra, a prayer. The words soothed her and reminded her who she was. And who she was not.

Over the next few weeks, Shasa rode in the same position behind the bloodriders in Drogo’s  _khalasar_  but she kept her eyes straight forward, never meeting his. And when they camped, she drew his water and bathed him and braided his hair but at night when he slipped under the blankets beside her, she was a block of ice, unwavering and unyielding.

Drogo was contrite but he was also a  _khal_  and not used to being rebuffed. He placed soft kisses down her back and whispered in her ear but Shasa was like a rock he’d broken himself against and the pieces could not be mended.

 

 The  _khalasar_ was headed back to Vaes Dothrak when they encountered a rival  _khalasar_. Since they were still a week’s ride from the city, they were fair game and Khal Drogo’s fame preceded him. Defeating his  _khas_  and cutting his braid was a victory many  _khals_  hungered for. The sound of the hooves cantering over the fields threw Shasa into a panic. It was just like before except she had no place to hide in the open plain.

“ _Ela, ela!_ ” Drogo spurred his horse on. He reared up next to Shasa when he saw the wild look in her eyes. “Shasa  _jalan anni_ , stay with Jhoro and Arat. They will keep you safe.” Drogo looked at them so intently both men shifted uncomfortably. “ _Vo mahrazh ofrakhi mae_ ,” Drogo commanded. The men flanked Shasa obediently. No man would touch her or their lives would be forfeit. They guided her towards a small outcropping of rocks where the Dothraki women and their slaves were holed up.

Shasa sat on the edge of the group, alone. She could hear the clang of  _arakh_ upon  _arakh_  and the crack of whips as they ensnared flesh. The women around her held their children tight and whispered soothing sounds. Shasa looked around at the women, Windgrass and Dothraki, all wanting the same thing: to be safe. She thought back to the temple and without realizing she was climbing to her feet. Shasa stood at the mouth of the cave every inch the priestess she was meant to be and began to sing. She sang a hymn to the Mother Goddess asking for deliverance and peace. The other Windgrass women took up the song, bending their knees to the Mother Goddess and prostrating before Shasa. When the hymn was done, they went back to holding their children. Prayer was all they had to offer.

 

 Drogo galloped into battle like always, with abandon. His  _arakh_  was an extension of his arm and his arm was like a scythe that reaped the men like wheat in a field. Time seemed to slow down as he turned and twisted, cutting down his enemies on either side. Drogo felt a cut on his left side but he did not falter. He turned slicing off the hand that wounded him.

The fighting was brutal but when it was done, Drogo’s  _khas_  had defeated Khal Varo and he held the man’s braid to prove it. He was sitting in his tent when Jhoro and Arat brought Shasa to him. “My king,” she said looking at her feet.

“Shasa,” Drogo struggled to say her name and when she looked up she saw the sweat collected on his brow and the gash at his side.

“You’re hurt,” Shasa said. She crossed to him and rinsed out a cloth. As she went to wipe his forehead, he grabbed her slender wrist.

“Forgive me,” he said, straining.

“Khal, let me –“

Drogo squeezed her wrist tighter. “Forgive me,” he said fiercely. He was hurting her but Shasa could hear the desperation in his voice and that scared her more than the pain. She cupped his jaw in her palm. “I forgive you.” Drogo rested his forehead against hers and Shasa could feel the heat radiating from his body. Shasa kissed his feverish lips and wiped his forehead as she hummed the hymn she’d been singing earlier. Drogo had a smile on his face as he fell asleep.

 

 “You’re awake, my king,” Shasa said when he woke. She was stoking the fire in the center of the tent. Drogo was wet with sweat but he felt strong again. “Your fever broke in the night.”

“ _Jadat mae_ ,” Drogo said, calling her to his side. When she reached him, Drogo pulled her to his side and kissed her deeply. “ _Jalan anni_ , my moon,” he called her. He tasted of sweat and sweetness.

Shasa pulled away shyly. “My lord, you are well. You must be bathed and dressed so we can ride to Vaes Dothrak.” She moved to stand but Drogo held her tight.

“I still ache,” he said.

 “What can I do?” Shasa moved to check his wounds but Drogo just kissed her again and as he pulled her close, Shasa could feel his hardness throbbing against her.

“Be with me,” he said, as he unlaced her shift. It fell behind her, forgotten. She sighed as he entered her. He filled her deftly and she rocked back and forth slowly gathering speed. Drogo flipped her onto her back and stroked her deeply. He buried his face against her chest, laving her nipples as she moaned with pleasure. With each thrust, she grew wetter and wetter. “ _Shekh ma khal anni._ My sun, my king,” Shasa moaned as he brought her to climax. She raked her fingers across his back as he came inside her. Drogo balanced himself on his elbows keeping his full weight off the small girl underneath him. “You will be my khaleesi,” he said. “My queen.”

“Khaleesi,” Shasa repeated. The next day they rode out with Khal Drogo in the lead and Shasa at his side.

 

Shasa wretched at the side of the trail. The  _khalasar_  had not stopped. They were only a day’s ride from Vaes Dothrak, but Drogo had ordered a  _ko_  to stay behind and watch her. He’d also left a young Dothraki girl named Jhari to tend her. The girl was a few years older than Shasa, about fifteen and she had been tending Shasa since Drogo called her his  _khaleesi_. They had yet to be wed but the entire  _khalasar_  had noted her  _khas_ and her place beside the  _khal_. Drogo had also given her a honey colored filly from Khal Varo's flock that rode across the Dothraki Sea like a golden flame as befit her station.

“Here khaleesi,” Jhari said, handing her water to wash out her mouth.

“Jhari please call me Shasa,” she asked for the millionth time. Jhari spoke the Common Tongue and due to that, the girls had become fast friends but Jhari refused to call her anything but  _khaleesi_  and she was not yet queen.

 “Apologies khaleesi. You are sick for the second morning. Are you feverish?”

“No it’s just my stomach. It must be the riding. Or the nerves,” Shasa said.

“The khaleesi will be presented to the dosh khaleen once we reach Vaes Dothrak,” Jhari said knowingly.

“I will meet the khal’s mother,” Shasa replied.

“ She is wise and brave, the khaleesi of Bharbo. He was a great warrior. It is known,” Jhari intoned.

“I am ready to ride,” Shasa said, swallowing her nerves. Jhari helped her onto her golden filly and the two of them laughed as they raced back to the  _khalasar_ , her  _ko_ struggling to keep up with the girls.

Drogo saw her return out of the corner of her eye, smiling and laughing. “You are well,” he said gruffly, with neither concern nor dislike.

 “Yes, my king,” Shasa replied. She rode up next to him and lowered her voice amongst the slow and steady hoofbeats. “I will be more than fine this evenfall,” she said coyly before dropping back next to Jhari. The two of them giggled as they spoke quickly in the Common Tongue. Drogo shook his head with mirth as Qotho sidled up to him.

“Your bride is a child not a queen,” Qotho said.

“She will be your khaleesi soon enough, Qotho. Watch your tongue or you may find yourself without one.”

 

That evening Shasa stood beneath the moon as they camped and feasted before their return to Vaes Dothrak the next morning. The moon was full and high and she looked at herself in the still pool in front of her. She touched her body, her breasts that had begun to swell and her hips, which had become fuller and curved. Her face had lost some of its childlike roundness and her arms and legs had become strong and muscled from the long days of riding. Though she had not yet adopted the bowlegged swagger of the Dothrakis, she had become just as used to the four-legs of her golden filly as she had of her own two legs. She stared at her reflection and said, “I’m changed.”

“You’re with child.” Shasa looked up to see an old Windgrass woman standing across the water. She was stooped and tired but fierce. Her name was Casana, an old woman whose white hair fell in waves down her back. She looked at Shasa’s belly and pointed. “The child will not live. It is an abomination”

“Why would you say that?” Shasa said, touching her belly protectively. The thought of having Drogo’s child warmed her heart and already she felt the small flame of life inside of her.

“The Mother is a goddess of nature. The grass cannot birth a foal anymore than you can birth a Dothraki warrior. It is not right.”

“The Mother Goddess would not harm my child.”

“Your child will not be borne unto the Mother’s earth,” the old woman said. Shasa felt a chill deep in her bones. Just then Jhari appeared in the clearing.

“Khaleesi, your bath is ready,” the girl said.

“Thank you Jhari,” Shasa said. When she turned to the woman again, she was gone.

 

That evening, Shasa lay curled up against Drogo’s side. She traced her finger along the scar that was forming on his side. It was an ugly thing, a reminder that he was not invincible. She frowned at it, until Drogo grabbed her chin to look in her face. “What’s is it,  _jalan anni_?”

Shasa was scared. “What would happen to me if you died?” she asked. She spoke in the Common Tongue so she knew he did not understand what she was asking but he could tell she was afraid. “ _Astola, jalan anni_ ,” he asked her to speak.

Shasa spoke the words she had asked Jhari to teach her. “I am with child,” she said in Dothraki.

Drogo smiled. He splayed his fingers across her belly, which was still smooth. “He will be a stallion that will conquer many lands and claim many braids.”

Shasa laughed. “And what if it is a girl?” she asked. “Will she also conquer and command a khalasar of her own?”

“She will be a strong and beautiful and many khals will drive their hordes into battle to win the favor of her golden eyes,” Drogo replied.

“She will be sweet and beautiful. And she will ride across the Dothraki Sea honouring the Mother Goddess,” Shasa said, nuzzling against him.

“If she is a girl,” Drogo said.

Shasa entwined her fingers with his. “I love you,” she said kissing his chest. “ _Shekh anni,_ you are my sun and my life. As long as you live so shall I.” That night she led him outside of the tent into the open air because the Dothraki like the Windgrass people believed that the important events must happen surrounded by nature. And when she took him inside of her, she felt the Mother Goddess moving within her. She felt safe.

        

            Over the next few weeks, Shasa found herself caught between two worlds; the women of the  _khalasar_  reviled her and her own people openly despised the girl who had hoped one day to lead them. By day, she rode behind the _khal_  and his bloodriders, a place of honour. In the evening, she tended Drogo washing his body and scenting it with oil. Soon she came to know every inch of his broad shoulders and muscled torso. She braided his hair with nimble fingers, weaving the bells into the plait. Her own people, the women and children who’d been taken as slaves, watched her fetching Drogo’s things and tending his hearth. They called her a Dothraki bitch and spat at her feet. The days were hot and dusty. When the  _khalasar_  camped, she arranged the blankets in the  _khal’s_  tent and started the fire. When everything was set, she bathed the dirt and dust from her body, prayed to the Mother Goddess and fell asleep exhausted and bruised from the long day of riding.

            Drogo would return after feasting and shed his clothing. He would lie down beside her and pull her close, tangling his fingers in her hair, and then he would fall asleep. Shasa didn’t know what to make of it. He never pressed her the way he did that first night. Only once when he’d lain beside her and found her still in her shift and small clothes had he protested. From then on she made sure to slip naked under his blankets. Sometimes she watched him as he slept. In repose, his face had a sweetness to it. His brow evened and he breathed pleasantly. He held her loosely and she laid her head on his chest feeling the slow thud of his heart.

            Many times she dreamed of slitting his throat and setting her people free but more often she dreamt of him and her thighs moistened at the thought of the way he’d touched her that first night. One night she dreamt of her mother and father, together again within the walls of the temple and Shasa woke up with tears wet on her face. When she looked up, Drogo was staring at her puzzled. He wiped the salty tears from her eyes and Shasa kissed his fingers. She took his large hand in hers, threading her fingers through his. Slowly, she kissed at the salty wetness that lingered on his chest. When she looked up he was staring into her golden eyes and she could feel the heat that smoldered in his coal black ones.

            Shasa kissed him fiercely, biting at his lips. Her tongue snaked out to taste his mouth. He tasted of meat and mead and honey. She swung her leg over until she was sitting astride him. Drogo came up to meet her, one hand tangling in her hair and the other exploring her flesh. Shasa reached down hesitantly and positioned him at her entrance. He entered her swiftly, breaking her maidenhood, and she gasped, gripping his shoulders. He filled her completely and she felt as if he could touch the fire in her belly.

            Shasa rode him as hard as a stallion cantering over the Dothraki Sea. He gripped her hips and pulled her closer until they were pressed chest to chest. And when he spilled his seed inside of her, she fell forward breathless against his throat. “Goddess,” she whispered, spent. Drogo tasted her salty, sweet skin and whispered in her ear, “ _Anni_.” Mine.

 

            “She is a slave, you are a  _khal_ ,” Qotho said as they rode the next day. “You elevate her as if she were a true Dothraki.”

            “She will ride beside me as long as I wish,” Drogo replied.

            “That whore is no  _khaleesi_. You cannot trust her.”

            Drogo narrowed his eyes at his bloodrider causing him to look away in fear. “Do not question me. Shasa rides by my side.” Drogo cantered ahead, letting the thundering hooves drown out Qotho’s words. It had been three nights since Shasa had given herself to him and every night since they’d lay together, giving themselves over to their passion and learning every part of the other’s body. He’d come to know the soft cries she made as he spilled his seed into her, as well as the deep moans that signaled her climax. Each time she kissed him, he felt breathless in a way he never felt after riding across the Sea. Every time he saw her was a sickeningly sweet shock to his senses. He liked to watch the way she moved as she tended him. Each move was deliberate and reverent as if she were praying. She washed the dust from his body as if she were tending a god.

            The many weeks she’d lain beside him, he’d thirsted for her but he’d restrained himself. Sometime he’d wake to find her nuzzled against him like a foal. He’d inhale that scent that never seemed to leave her skin; summer wind and sweet grass. When she’d taken him that first night, he’d let her take the lead, knowing that her pride would not survive anything else. And in so many ways, surrendering to her passion was even more exciting. This small girl held his happiness in her breast. He lusted after her but even more he wanted to please her.

            Shasa trotted up behind him. “What is it, my king?” she asked.

            “Nothing,” he said. “Go back to the  _khas_.”

            “But –,“ she protested.

            “Leave, slave!” he bellowed.

            Shasa drew her horse up suddenly. “As you wish,” she replied icily. Drogo watched her back as she galloped away.

             

            When they camped, Shasa set up the tent as usual and headed down to the spring to bathe and wash the khal’s clothes. The Windgrass women stayed far away from her though the whispers of whore and traitor carried on across the water. Fatigued, she returned to the tent to pray and rest but she found Drogo sitting near the fire. She looked at him, her golden eyes sparking with anger, and marched past him setting down the things she’d carried to the spring.

            “ _Anha fevela_ ,” Drogo said stiffly. Dutifully, Shasa went and poured him a cup of fermented mare’s milk. She handed him the cup and walked away. Drogo drained the cup in one gulp. “ _Save,_ ” he ordered. Shasa poured him another and he gulped it down just as quickly. “ _Save_ ”. Shasa refilled cup after cup and he drained each one until he was sluggish and unsteady. She was pouring him another cup when he grabbed her wrist, pulling her close. “Take off your clothes,” he said.

            “Is that an order, my king?,” Shasa said coldly.

            “Yes,” he said. Shasa stood tall and took off her shift, letting it fall to the ground.

            “Anything else, my king?” Shasa said, looking own on him with contempt.

            Drogo stood up, towering over her. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up, wrapping her legs around him. He walked over to the blankets and laid her down, entering her with assuredness. Shasa stood her ground, displaying none of the passion she’d once felt. Drogo was incensed by her disinterest and he moved within her harder, plunging deeper as if he could melt the ice of her heart with his body. Occasionally, her body betrayed her; a sigh when he kissed a particular spot on her neck, a moan when he wrapped his lips around the soft flesh of her breasts and suckled, and when he came her hips bucked up instinctively to meet his final thrust. But when he was done, breathless and boneless, she untangled herself from his body and stood. “Will that be all?,” she asked, haughtily as she redressed. His silence taken for permission, she left the tent and his frustration behind.

 

            “ _Me vos ofrak-hi._  He will never touch me again,” Shasa vowed as she paced. “ _Hash anha rissat lekh. Vosecchi._ ” Shasa hurled the water pot she was carrying to the ground. “I am Shasa Windgrass, daughter of Lynxa, the great healer and Asroth, the temple master. My people worship the Great Goddess. I am promised to her.” Shasa recited the words vehemently. They were like a mantra, a prayer. The words soothed her and reminded her who she was. And who she was not.

            Over the next few weeks, Shasa rode in the same position behind the bloodriders in Drogo’s  _khalasar_  but she kept her eyes straight forward, never meeting his. And when they camped, she drew his water and bathed him and braided his hair but at night when he slipped under the blankets beside her, she was a block of ice, unwavering and unyielding.

            Drogo was contrite but he was also a  _khal_  and not used to being rebuffed. He placed soft kisses down her back and whispered in her ear but Shasa was like a rock he’d broken himself against and the pieces could not be mended.

 

            The  _khalasar_ was headed back to Vaes Dothrak when they encountered a rival  _khalasar_. Since they were still a week’s ride from the city, they were fair game and Khal Drogo’s fame preceded him. Defeating his  _khas_  and cutting his braid was a victory many  _khals_  hungered for. The sound of the hooves cantering over the fields threw Shasa into a panic. It was just like before except she had no place to hide in the open plain.

            “ _Ela, ela!_ ” Drogo spurred his horse on. He reared up next to Shasa when he saw the wild look in her eyes. “Shasa  _jalan anni_ , stay with Jhoro and Arat. They will keep you safe.” Drogo looked at them so intently both men shifted uncomfortably. “ _Vo mahrazh ofrakhi mae_ ,” Drogo commanded. The men flanked Shasa obediently. No man would touch her or their lives would be forfeit. They guided her towards a small outcropping of rocks where the Dothraki women and their slaves were holed up.

            Shasa sat on the edge of the group, alone. She could hear the clang of  _arakh_ upon  _arakh_  and the crack of whips as they ensnared flesh. The women around her held their children tight and whispered soothing sounds. Shasa looked around at the women, Windgrass and Dothraki, all wanting the same thing: to be safe. She thought back to the temple and without realizing she was climbing to her feet. Shasa stood at the mouth of the cave every inch the priestess she was meant to be and began to sing. She sang a hymn to the Mother Goddess asking for deliverance and peace. The other Windgrass women took up the song, bending their knees to the Mother Goddess and prostrating before Shasa. When the hymn was done, they went back to holding their children. Prayer was all they had to offer.

 

            Drogo galloped into battle like always, with abandon. His  _arakh_  was an extension of his arm and his arm was like a scythe that reaped the men like wheat in a field. Time seemed to slow down as he turned and twisted, cutting down his enemies on either side. Drogo felt a cut on his left side but he did not falter. He turned slicing off the hand that wounded him.

            The fighting was brutal but when it was done, Drogo’s  _khas_  had defeated Khal Varo and he held the man’s braid to prove it. He was sitting in his tent when Jhoro and Arat brought Shasa to him. “My king,” she said looking at her feet.

            “Shasa,” Drogo struggled to say her name and when she looked up she saw the sweat collected on his brow and the gash at his side.

            “You’re hurt,” Shasa said. She crossed to him and rinsed out a cloth. As she went to wipe his forehead, he grabbed her slender wrist.

            “Forgive me,” he said, straining.

            “Khal, let me –“

            Drogo squeezed her wrist tighter. “Forgive me,” he said fiercely. He was hurting her but Shasa could hear the desperation in his voice and that scared her more than the pain. She cupped his jaw in her palm. “I forgive you.” Drogo rested his forehead against hers and Shasa could feel the heat radiating from his body. Shasa kissed his feverish lips and wiped his forehead as she hummed the hymn she’d been singing earlier. Drogo had a smile on his face as he fell asleep.

 

            “You’re awake, my king,” Shasa said when he woke. She was stoking the fire in the center of the tent. Drogo was wet with sweat but he felt strong again. “Your fever broke in the night.”

            “ _Jadat mae_ ,” Drogo said, calling her to his side. When she reached him, Drogo pulled her to his side and kissed her deeply. “ _Jalan anni_ , my moon,” he called her. He tasted of sweat and sweetness.

            Shasa pulled away shyly. “My lord, you are well. You must be bathed and dressed so we can ride to Vaes Dothrak.” She moved to stand but Drogo held her tight.

            “I still ache,” he said.

            “What can I do?” Shasa moved to check his wounds but Drogo just kissed her again and as he pulled her close, Shasa could feel his hardness throbbing against her.

            “Be with me,” he said, as he unlaced her shift. It fell behind her, forgotten. She sighed as he entered her. He filled her deftly and she rocked back and forth slowly gathering speed. Drogo flipped her onto her back and stroked her deeply. He buried his face against her chest, laving her nipples as she moaned with pleasure. With each thrust, she grew wetter and wetter. “ _Shekh ma khal anni._ My sun, my king,” Shasa moaned as he brought her to climax. She raked her fingers across his back as he came inside her. Drogo balanced himself on his elbows keeping his full weight off the small girl underneath him. “You will be my khaleesi,” he said. “My queen.”

            “Khaleesi,” Shasa repeated. The next day they rode out with Khal Drogo in the lead and Shasa at his side.

 

            Shasa wretched at the side of the trail. The  _khalasar_  had not stopped. They were only a day’s ride from Vaes Dothrak, but Drogo had ordered a  _ko_  to stay behind and watch her. He’d also left a young Dothraki girl named Jhari to tend her. The girl was a few years older than Shasa, about fifteen and she had been tending Shasa since Drogo called her his  _khaleesi_. They had yet to be wed but the entire  _khalasar_  had noted her  _khas_ and her place beside the  _khal_. Drogo had also given her a honey colored filly that rode across the Dothraki Sea like a golden flame as befit her station.

            “Here khaleesi,” Jhari said, handing her water to wash out her mouth.

            “Jhari please call me Shasa,” she asked for the millionth time. Jhari spoke the Common Tongue and due to that, the girls had become fast friends but Jhari refused to call her anything but  _khaleesi_  and she was not yet queen.

            “Apologies khaleesi. You are sick for the second morning. Are you feverish?”

            “No it’s just my stomach. It must be the riding. Or the nerves,” Shasa said.

            “The khaleesi will be presented to the dosh khaleen once we reach Vaes Dothrak,” Jhari said knowingly.

            “I will meet the khal’s mother,” Shasa replied.

            “ She is wise and brave, the khaleesi of Bharbo. He was a great warrior. It is known,” Jhari intoned.

            “I am ready to ride,” Shasa said, swallowing her nerves. Jhari helped her onto her golden filly and the two of them laughed as they raced back to the  _khalasar_ , her  _ko_ struggling to keep up with the girls.

            Drogo saw her return out of the corner of her eye, smiling and laughing. “You are well,” he said gruffly, with neither concern nor dislike.

            “Yes, my king,” Shasa replied. She rode up next to him and lowered her voice amongst the slow and steady hoofbeats. “I will be more than fine this evenfall,” she said coyly before dropping back next to Jhari. The two of them giggled as they spoke quickly in the Common Tongue. Drogo shook his head with mirth as Qotho sidled up to him.

            “Your bride is a child not a queen,” Qotho said.

            “She will be your khaleesi soon enough, Qotho. Watch your tongue or you may find yourself without one.”

 

            That evening Shasa stood beneath the moon as they camped and feasted before their return to Vaes Dothrak the next morning. The moon was full and high and she looked at herself in the still pool in front of her. She touched her body, her breasts that had begun to swell and her hips, which had become fuller and curved. Her face had lost some of its childlike roundness and her arms and legs had become strong and muscled from the long days of riding. Though she had not yet adopted the bowlegged swagger of the Dothrakis, she had become just as used to the four-legs of her golden filly as she had of her own two legs. She stared at her reflection and said, “I’m changed.”

            “You’re with child.” Shasa looked up to see an old Windgrass woman standing across the water. She was stooped and tired but fierce. Her name was Casana, an old woman whose white hair fell in waves down her back. She looked at Shasa’s belly and pointed. “The child will not live. It is an abomination”

            “Why would you say that?” Shasa said, touching her belly protectively. The thought of having Drogo’s child warmed her heart and already she felt the small flame of life inside of her.

            “The Mother is a goddess of nature. The grass cannot birth a foal anymore than you can birth a Dothraki warrior. It is not right.”

            “The Mother Goddess would not harm my child.”

            “Your child will not be borne unto the Mother’s earth,” the old woman said. Shasa felt a chill deep in her bones. Just then Jhari appeared in the clearing.

            “Khaleesi, your bath is ready,” the girl said.

            “Thank you Jhari,” Shasa said. When she turned to the woman again, she was gone.

 

            That evening, Shasa lay curled up against Drogo’s side. She traced her finger along the scar that was forming on his side. It was an ugly thing, a reminder that he was not invincible. She frowned at it, until Drogo grabbed her chin to look in her face. “What’s is it,  _jalan anni_?”

            Shasa was scared. “What would happen to me if you died?” she asked. She spoke in the Common Tongue so she knew he did not understand what she was asking but he could tell she was afraid. “ _Astola, jalan anni_ ,” he asked her to speak.

            Shasa spoke the words she had asked Jhari to teach her. “I am with child,” she said in Dothraki.

            Drogo smiled. He splayed his fingers across her belly, which was still smooth. “He will be a stallion that will conquer many lands and claim many braids.”

            Shasa laughed. “And what if it is a girl?” she asked. “Will she also conquer and command a khalasar of her own?”

            “She will be a strong and beautiful and many khals will drive their hordes into battle to win the favor of her golden eyes,” Drogo replied.

            “She will be sweet and beautiful. And she will ride across the Dothraki Sea honouring the Mother Goddess,” Shasa said, nuzzling against him.

            “If she is a girl,” Drogo said.

            Shasa entwined her fingers with his. “I love you,” she said kissing his chest. “ _Shekh anni,_ you are my sun and my life. As long as you live so shall I.” That night she led him outside of the tent into the open air because the Dothraki like the Windgrass people believed that the important events must happen surrounded by nature. And when she took him inside of her, she felt the Mother Goddess moving within her. She felt safe.

 

            When they retuned to the Vaes Dothrak the next day, the slaves of the  _khalasar_  went to work adding on to Drogo’s hodgepodge of a manse to accommodate the growing numbers of Drogo’s horde. Shasa climbed down from her filly and entered the manse, which was essentially a giant feasting hall with a silken roof. Jhari led her to the small, cool room off the main hall that had been prepared for her and the  _khal_  to sleep in.

            She was finishing her bath when Qotho entered. “The khal bid me to tell you that he will ride up the Mother of Mountains tonight to make his sacrifices. He will return tomorrow.”

            Shasa was gracious despite the man’s tones. “Please tell my sun we await his return and I shall make my own prayers for his safe travels.”

            Qotho spat, “You pray to your Grass gods. The stallion eats the grass. It trembles under its feet.”

            “But when the stallion dies, the grass grows up around it and the stallion is at peace. We all return to the Mother Goddess’ earth.”

            Qotho spat again, “The Dothraki are warriors, conquerors, not men of peace.”

            “Yet in the walls of Vaes Dothrak, all khals are one horde.” Shasa stood and despite her nakedness, she was majestic. “Soon we will be joined, the Windgrass people and the Dothraki. I will be your khaleesi.”

            “You will be the queen of slaves. No more,” Qotho said. And with that he spun on his heel and marched away.

           

            “She is very beautiful,” Drogo’s mother, Thori, said to him as she oiled his braid. The two of them had not sat like this, like mother and son, since he had gone from being a  _khalakka_  to a  _khal_ in his own right.

            “She is the moon of my life,” Drogo said.

            “Yet she is a slave girl?,” Thori coughed out.

            “She was not a slave before her people were conquered. She was a priestess. She was going to be a wise woman, a healer.”

            “But all who we claim are slaves. And you want to wed her?” Thori was not sure about this girl. “You must talk to the one-eyed crone. You must follow the omens.”

            “She carries a baby in her belly.”

            “If he will be the next khalakka, let her observe the rituals. Let her eat the horse’s heart as I once did. Until then she is just another slave you’ve bedded.” His mother coughed again.

            “Are you sick?” Drogo asked.

            “I am fine,” his mother said, kissing her son’s forehead.

            “I will pray to the Mother of the Mountains for you and my bride,” Drogo said, hugging his mother. He had no way of knowing it would be the last time he would see her alive.

 

            The next morning, Jhari woke Shasa suddenly. “The khaleesi summons you.” Shasa was half-sleep and did not understand what was happening.

            “The khaleesi?” she asked.

            “The khal’s mother,” Jhari said with tears in her eyes. “She is not well.” Shasa dressed hurriedly and headed to the  _khaleesi’s_  home. The older woman was lying amongst her blankets and cushions, but her eyes were glazed. Shasa took her hand.

            “My son says your mother was a great healer,” Thori said, weakly.

            “Yes, she was a great woman. She healed many but she could not save herself when I was born.”

            “You were strong, though. You lived.”

            “My father said my first cry was a gift to the Mother Goddess.”

            “You are with child?” she asked and Shasa nodded.

            “You bring my son peace,” the old khaleesi said. “Peace, to the Dothraki, is the same as death.” Shasa felt the tears prick at her eyes. She’d often thought the same thing and as much as she loved Drogo, the thought of him dying in battle or birthing a son who would tear down the gods and goddesses of another’s homeland made her ill.

            The older woman took a rattling breath and gripped Shasa’s hand harder. “I can ease your passing,” Shasa whispered.

            “No,” Thori said. “I was a khaleesi, wife to Bharbo, my sun and stars, and mother to Drogo, whose braid has never been cut. Just as you did not enter this world peacefully, I will not leave it without a fight.” Shasa gripped the woman’s hand as she fought her way out of this world. That was how Drogo found them when he returned.

            After his mother had been laid to rest, Drogo was eager to ride away from Vaes Dothrak and the memory of his mother and father. Though his face revealed very little, Shasa could feel the anger and grief growing inside of him and as he thundered across the Dothraki Sea, she tried to keep up on her golden flame. At night, when they camped, she took Drogo inside her and tried to soothe his sadness.

            “We will wed at Pentos,” Drogo told her as they lay abed. His head lay on her breasts, his hands splayed against her gently curved belly. “Far away from Vaes Dothrak.” Whenever he thought of the city, he thought of his mother’s body burning to ashes beneath the Mother of the Mountain. She had been fine, healthy. He knew it was a bad omen. Shaking his head of the ill thoughts, Drogo sat up on elbows and looked at his bride. Her breasts were swelling and her hips had filled out. She was not showing yet but she glowed with the pregnancy. The firelight flickered off her skin, casting delicate shadows. It made him want her all the more. She was everything. Sweet and ferocious, light and fire. The cool earth after rain. Her eyes were like molten gold alight with a passion that burned only for him.

            Shasa looked up at him. His hair fell in a dark curtain down his back and she ran her hair through the tresses, smelling the scent of his oiled hair. When they were alone like this, she could not help but marvel at him. This man, this savage who’d smashed her existence to pieces and then built her a new one like a strange mosaic. His heavily charcoaled eyes, once frightening, dance with mirth and could make her body respond with just one look. His chest bore the scars of scores of battles and she could name each one. She loved the soft music of the bells that adorned his braid. As he looked down on her, she felt that familiar tugging in her belly.

            She reached up and pulled him down to her. Her hands reached for his hardness. She nipped at his neck as he entered her. When she felt like this the only comfort was feeling him deep inside of her. She loved him too much to regret the life she’d left behind but she knew she’d never truly feel like a Dothraki, even if she bore him a thousand sons. Shasa pushed him onto his back and rode him like she was cantering across the plains on her flame. His hips rose up to match her speed and when she was spent, she fell forward onto his chest breathless, with tears in her eyes. The fire in her belly was never extinguished and she was afraid it would consume her.

 

            They set out across the Dothaki Sea eager to arrive in Pentos. The  _khalasar_  moved slowly through the tall grasses. Shasa rode hard to keep up with her  _khal_ but each night when they stopped, she slid exhausted from her horse. Her body was changing and halfway to Pentos she began to show. Her belly was swelling with the growing child inside her and Jhari and her other maid Dirri had to help her dismount. And after she was bathed and clean, the  _khal_  would come to her, enflamed by the sight of her womanly curves and he would take her until she was spent again.

            Often when they lay together, he touched her stomach and laughed as the baby kicked like a stallion. Shasa’s eyes warmed like honey when she watched him smile. Once they’d stolen away in the night to make love under the moon and stars. Drogo watched the moonlight cast a glow on her body as she rose and fell on him. She was his moon as surely as he was her sun and stars. And together, they were happy.

 

            They were only fine days ride from Pentos when Khal Iro’s  _khas_  attacked. Drogo’s bloodriders were immediately at his side and Shasa’s  _kos_  crowded around to defend her. Drogo commanded her to his tent.

            “ _Shehk anni_!” Shasa cried as he turned to leave. Khal Drogo turned to her, his face hardened and cold. Though she was scared, Shasa kissed his blade and whispered, “Bring me his braid.” Her fear would undo him, so she showed none. Drogo touched her stomach, the only sentiment he would allow and nodded. He mounted his horse in one swift movement and rode off.

 

            The battle was fierce. And for the first time, Drogo found he was distracted. He was wondering about the safety of Shasa and hi unborn child. Though it spurred him on, it also caused him to falter at times. His  _arakh_  sliced through the air but it’s aim was not always true. His mount moved unsteadily beneath him as if it sensed his distraction, but he spurred it on determined to find Iro.

            As he pushed on, Drogo began to cut through the enemy horde like a hot knife through butter. He slit throats and spilt the dead men’s entrails along the dusty sands. He was a tornado of speed and a storm of destruction.

 

            The sounds of battle seemed closer than ever. Shasa clutched her stomach protectively and sang a hymn to drown out the sound of metal tearing into flesh. The sound went silent and it seemed as if her prayers had been answered. Until a demon entered her quarters.

            He stood almost as tall as her sun and stars. His braid was long and tinkled sinisterly with the bells of his dead enemies. Khal Iro had taken many lives and he’d come for hers.

            “Arat! Jhogo!,” Shasa called to her  _khas_.

            “Dead,” Khal Iro replied. Jhari weeped beside her queen.

            “Jhari, find thekhal,” Shasa commanded.

            “Khaleesi,” Jhari started.

            “Now!” Shasa said. “He will not harm you.” Shasa leveled her golden eyes on Iro without wavering. Jhari fled the tent, in a flurry of dust and tears.

            “The girl is of no consequence,” Iro said. “My riders will mount her soon enough.”

            “Your riders will mount nothing once my sun and stars has cut off their heads,” Shasa said.

            Iro spat. “Grass Whore.”

            “I am Shasa Windgrass, daughter of the great healer Lynxa and the temple master, Asroth. I am a High Priestess of the Mother Goddess,” Shasa’s golden eyes narrowed. “And I am no whore.”

            “You will be when I have claimed you and cut that whelp from your belly.”

            “You will not hurt my child,” Shasa said fiercely. Iro lunged for her and Shasa evaded, but he was big and skilled and she had nowhere to go. He tripped her and Shasa fell, cradling her stomach protectively. Iro flipped her on her back.

            He loomed over her and Shasa felt her heart fall into her stomach. He leaned low until the stench of his breath filled her nostrils. “You will scream for mercy before I slit your throat whore,” Iro said.

            “Not before you,” Shasa spat back at him as she drew her dagger across his throat. The Valryian steel cut through muscle and flesh raining his hot blood down on her face.

            Shasa rolled the big man off of her and stood just as Qotho entered the tent. She was covered in blood, a deadly sight. “Tell the khal the fighting is done. Iro is dead.” Shasa threw down her dagger. “There should be peace.”

             Qotho took one step towards her. “Yes … khaleesi.”

 

            “Khal!” Jhari’s voice carried across the din but only because Drogo had been listening for it. He knew it was coming. He opened the belly of the man in front of him and ran towards the tent.

            When he entered the tent, Qotho was standing over her as she struggled to take her last breaths. Drogo fell on his knees beside her, pulling her to his chest. He saw Iro lying in a pool of his own blood and Shasa clutched her side where the  _arakh_  had entered puncturing her lungs. Her breath was short and shallow.

            Qotho spoke quietly, “The Grass girl cut Iro’s throat but he stabbed her as he died. She is dying.”

            “No!” Drogo roared. His cry was like an angry lion, deep and fearsome. “ _Jalan anni_ , mother of my stallion do not leave. I promise you that Iro’s khalasar shall weep tears of blood for what he has done to you. Just don’t leave me.”

            Shasa looked at her killer and then her love. She reached her hand up to touch his lips and looked into his eyes, and she breathed her final word, ”No.”

            Drogo pulled her close. The golden eyes that had once sparked with life were blank and staring. Drogo touched her still belly and kissed her lips where warmth still lingered. And the roar that came from the tent could be heard across the Dothraki Sea.

 

            Shasa’s body was place on a funeral pyre above the body of her filly. Drogo placed her dagger on her breast along with Iro’s braid, which she’d claimed in battle. “Ride home,  _jalan anni_ ,” Drogo said, placing one last kiss on her lips. He lit the pyre and as the flames took his love, Qotho whispered in his ear.

 

            Drogo’s  _khalasar_  swelled in size from that day on. As Qotho had advised, he grew his numbers so that he would never be challenged again and everything in his path was destruction. Each man he killed wiped away the image of a prince that was never born. The smell of hot blood spilled on the sand crowded out the scent of sweet grass that lingered long after her death. He mounted many women but always from behind so that he would not see their eyes. He was Khal Drogo and other  _khalasars_  quaked at the sound of his hooves coming.

 

And across the Narrow Sea on an isle called Dragonstone, his storm was born.

 

           


	3. A Storm is Born

When they retuned to the Vaes Dothrak the next day, the slaves of the _khalasar_ went to work adding on to Drogo’s hodgepodge of a manse to accommodate the growing numbers of Drogo’s horde. Shasa climbed down from her filly and entered the manse, which was essentially a giant feasting hall with a silken roof. Jhari led her to the small, cool room off the main hall that had been prepared for her and the _khal_ to sleep in.

 She was finishing her bath when Qotho entered. “The khal bid me to tell you that he will ride up the Mother of Mountains tonight to make his sacrifices. He will return tomorrow.”

Shasa was gracious despite the man’s tones. “Please tell my sun we await his return and I shall make my own prayers for his safe travels.”

Qotho spat, “You pray to your Grass gods. The stallion eats the grass. It trembles under its feet.”

“But when the stallion dies, the grass grows up around it and the stallion is at peace. We all return to the Mother Goddess’ earth.”

 Qotho spat again, “The Dothraki are warriors, conquerors, not men of peace.”

“Yet in the walls of Vaes Dothrak, all khals are one horde. You are men who know how to be peaceful. Even you Qotho” Shasa stood and despite her nakedness, she was majestic. “Soon we will be joined, the Windgrass people and the Dothraki. I will be your khaleesi.”

“You will be the queen of slaves. No more,” Qotho said. And with that he spun on his heel and marched away.

           

“She is very beautiful,” Drogo’s mother, Thori, said to him as she oiled his braid. The two of them had not sat like this, like mother and son, since he had gone from being a _khalakka_ to a _khal_ in his own right.

“She is the moon of my life,” Drogo said.

“Yet she is a slave girl?,” Thori coughed out.

“She was not a slave before her people were conquered. She was a priestess. She was going to be a wise woman, a healer.”

“But all who we claim are slaves. And you want to wed her?” Thori was not sure about this girl. “You must talk to the one-eyed crone. You must follow the omens.”

 “She carries a baby in her belly.”

“If he will be the next khalakka, let her observe the rituals. Let her eat the horse’s heart as I once did. Until then she is just another slave you’ve bedded.” His mother coughed again.

“Are you sick?” Drogo asked.

“I am fine,” his mother said, kissing her son’s forehead.

“I will pray to the Mother of the Mountains for you and my bride,” Drogo said, hugging his mother. He had no way of knowing it would be the last time he would see her alive.

 

The next morning, Jhari woke Shasa suddenly. “The khaleesi summons you.” Shasa was half-sleep and did not understand what was happening.

“The khaleesi?” she asked.

“The khal’s mother,” Jhari said with tears in her eyes. “She is not well.” Shasa dressed hurriedly and headed to the _khaleesi’s_ home. The older woman was lying amongst her blankets and cushions, but her eyes were glazed. Shasa took her hand.

“My son says your mother was a great healer,” Thori said, weakly.

“Yes, she was a great woman. She healed many but she could not save herself when I was born.”

 “You were strong, though. You lived.”

“My father said my first cry was a gift to the Mother Goddess.”

“You are with child?” she asked and Shasa nodded.

“You bring my son peace,” the old khaleesi said. Shasa smiled but the women's next words were dark. “Peace, to the Dothraki, is the same as death.” Shasa felt the tears prick at her eyes. She’d often thought the same thing and as much as she loved Drogo, the thought of him dying in battle or birthing a son who would grow up to tear down the gods and goddesses of another’s homeland made her ill.

The older woman took a rattling breath and gripped Shasa’s hand harder. “I can ease your passing,” Shasa whispered.

“No,” Thori said. “I was a khaleesi, wife to Bharbo, my sun and stars, and mother to Drogo, whose braid has never been cut. Just as you did not enter this world peacefully, I will not leave it without a fight.” Shasa gripped the woman’s hand as she fought her way out of this world. That was how Drogo found them when he returned.

After his mother had been laid to rest, Drogo was eager to ride away from Vaes Dothrak and the memory of his mother and father. Though his face revealed very little, Shasa could feel the anger and grief growing inside of him and as he thundered across the Dothraki Sea, she tried to keep up on her golden flame. At night, when they camped, she took Drogo inside her and tried to soothe his sadness.

“We will wed at Pentos,” Drogo told her as they lay abed. His head lay on her breasts, his hands splayed against her gently curved belly. “Far away from Vaes Dothrak.” Whenever he thought of the city, he thought of his mother’s body burning to ashes beneath the Mother of the Mountain. She had been fine, healthy. He knew it was a bad omen. Shaking his head of the ill thoughts, Drogo sat up on elbows and looked at his bride. Her breasts were swelling and her hips had filled out. She was not showing yet but she glowed with the pregnancy. The firelight flickered off her skin, casting delicate shadows. It made him want her all the more. She was everything. Sweet and ferocious, light and fire. The cool earth after rain. Her eyes were like molten gold alight with a passion that burned only for him.

Shasa looked up at him. His hair fell in a dark curtain down his back and she ran her hair through the tresses, smelling the scent of his oiled hair. When they were alone like this, she could not help but marvel at him. This man, this savage who’d smashed her existence to pieces and then built her a new one like a strange mosaic. His heavily charcoaled eyes, once frightening, dance with mirth and could make her body respond with just one look. His chest bore the scars of scores of battles and she could name each one. She loved the soft music of the bells that adorned his braid. As he looked down on her, she felt that familiar tugging in her belly.

She reached up and pulled him down to her. Her hands reached for his hardness. She nipped at his neck as he entered her. When she felt like this the only comfort was feeling him deep inside of her. She loved him too much to regret the life she’d left behind but she knew she’d never truly feel like a Dothraki, even if she bore him a thousand sons. Shasa pushed him onto his back and rode him like she was cantering across the plains on her flame. His hips rose up to match her speed and when she was spent, she fell forward onto his chest breathless, with tears in her eyes. The fire in her belly was never extinguished and she was afraid it would consume her.

 

They set out across the Dothaki Sea eager to arrive in Pentos. The _khalasar_ moved slowly through the tall grasses. Shasa rode hard to keep up with her _khal_ but each night when they stopped, she slid exhausted from her horse. Her body was changing and halfway to Pentos she began to show. Her belly was swelling with the growing child inside her and Jhari and her other maid Dirri had to help her dismount. And after she was bathed and clean, the _khal_ would come to her, enflamed by the sight of her womanly curves and he would take her until she was spent again.

Often when they lay together, he touched her stomach and laughed as the baby kicked like a stallion. Shasa’s eyes warmed like honey when she watched him smile. Once they’d stolen away in the night to make love under the moon and stars. Drogo watched the moonlight cast a glow on her body as she rose and fell on him. She was his moon as surely as he was her sun and stars. And together, they were happy.

 

They were only five days ride from Pentos when Khal Iro’s _khas_ attacked. Drogo’s bloodriders were immediately at his side and Shasa’s _kos_ crowded around to defend her. Drogo commanded her to his tent.

“ _Shehk anni_!” Shasa cried as he turned to leave. Khal Drogo turned to her, his face hardened and cold. Though she was scared, Shasa kissed his blade and whispered, “Bring me his braid.” Her fear would undo him, so she showed none. Drogo touched her stomach, the only sentiment he would allow and nodded. He mounted his horse in one swift movement and rode off.

 

The battle was fierce. And for the first time, Drogo found he was distracted. He was wondering about the safety of Shasa and hi unborn child. Though it spurred him on, it also caused him to falter at times. His _arakh_ sliced through the air but it’s aim was not always true. His mount moved unsteadily beneath him as if it sensed his distraction, but he spurred it on determined to find Iro.

As he pushed on, Drogo began to cut through the enemy horde like a hot knife through butter. He slit throats and spilt the dead men’s entrails along the dusty sands. He was a tornado of speed and a storm of destruction.

 

The sounds of battle seemed closer than ever. Shasa clutched her stomach protectively and sang a hymn to drown out the sound of metal tearing into flesh. The sound went silent and it seemed as if her prayers had been answered. Until a demon entered her quarters.

He stood almost as tall as her sun and stars. His braid was long and tinkled sinisterly with the bells of his dead enemies. Khal Iro had taken many lives and he’d come for hers.

 “Arat! Jhogo!,” Shasa called to her _khas_.

 “Dead,” Khal Iro replied. Jhari weeped beside her queen.

 “Jhari, find the khal,” Shasa commanded.

“Khaleesi,” Jhari started.

 “Now!” Shasa said. “He will not harm you.” Shasa leveled her golden eyes on Iro without wavering. Jhari fled the tent, in a flurry of dust and tears.

 “The girl is of no consequence,” Iro said. “My riders will mount her soon enough.”

“Your riders will mount nothing once my sun and stars has cut off their heads,” Shasa said.

 Iro spat. “Grass Whore.”

“I am Shasa Windgrass, daughter of the great healer Lynxa and the temple master, Asroth. I am a High Priestess of the Mother Goddess,” Shasa’s golden eyes narrowed. “And I am no whore.”

“You will be when I have claimed you and cut that whelp from your belly.”

“You will not hurt my child,” Shasa said fiercely. Iro lunged for her and Shasa evaded, but he was big and skilled and she had nowhere to go. He tripped her and Shasa fell, cradling her stomach protectively. Iro flipped her on her back.

He loomed over her and Shasa felt her heart fall into her stomach. He leaned low until the stench of his breath filled her nostrils. “You will scream for mercy before I slit your throat whore,” Iro said.

 “Not before you,” Shasa spat back at him as she drew her dagger across his throat. The Valryian steel cut through muscle and flesh raining his hot blood down on her face.

Shasa rolled the big man off of her and stood just as Qotho entered the tent. She was covered in blood, a deadly sight. “Tell the khal the fighting is done. Iro is dead.” Shasa threw down her dagger. “There should be peace.”

 Qotho took one step towards her. “Yes … khaleesi.”

 

“Khal!” Jhari’s voice carried across the din but only because Drogo had been listening for it. He knew it was coming. He opened the belly of the man in front of him and ran towards the tent.

When he entered the tent, Qotho was standing over her as she struggled to take her last breaths. Drogo fell on his knees beside her, pulling her to his chest. He saw Iro lying in a pool of his own blood and Shasa clutched her side where the _arakh_ had entered puncturing her lungs. Her breath was short and shallow.

Qotho spoke quietly, “The Grass girl cut Iro’s throat but he stabbed her as he died. She is dying.”

“No!” Drogo roared. His cry was like an angry lion, deep and fearsome. “ _Jalan anni_ , mother of my stallion do not leave. I promise you that Iro’s khalasar shall weep tears of blood for what he has done to you. Just don’t leave me.”

Shasa looked at her killer and then her love. She reached her hand up to touch his lips and looked into his eyes, and she breathed her final word, ”No.”

Drogo pulled her close. The golden eyes that had once sparked with life were blank and staring. Drogo touched her still belly and kissed her lips where warmth still lingered. And the roar that came from the tent could be heard across the Dothraki Sea.

 

Shasa’s body was place on a funeral pyre above the body of her filly. Drogo placed her dagger on her breast along with Iro’s braid, which she’d claimed in battle. “Ride home, _jalan anni_ ,” Drogo said, placing one last kiss on her lips. He lit the pyre and as the flames took his love, Qotho whispered thoughts of revenge and power in his ear.

 

Drogo’s _khalasar_ swelled in size from that day on. As Qotho had advised, he grew his numbers so that he would never be challenged again and everything in his path was destruction. Each man he killed wiped away the image of a prince that was never born. The smell of hot blood spilled on the sand crowded out the scent of sweet grass that lingered long after her death. He mounted many women but always from behind so that he would not see their eyes. He was Khal Drogo and other _khalasars_ quaked at the sound of his hooves coming. 

And across the Narrow Sea on an isle called Dragonstone, his storm was born.


End file.
